“Did you pay him for de tip, Skeeter?”
“Suttinly. He charged me fo’ bits.”
“Dat sho’ is curious,” Hitch said in a perplexed tone. “Now Pap gib me a tip on dat race an’ he said Dixie would win.”
“Dat’s whut he tole us,” Mustard and Figger chimed in.
“I don’t kotch on to dat,” Prince Total declared. “Pap sold me a tip on dat same race, an’ he said Rooster would win.”
“Huh,” Skeeter Butts grunted, “dat shows whut a slick-head nigger Pap is. He wucks it dis way—he tole twenty niggers dat Doodle-Bug would win; den he tole twenty mo’ niggers dat Dixie would win; den he tole twenty yuther niggers dat Rooster would win—an’ dar warn’t but three hosses in de race. Of co’se he picked a winner fer twenty of dem niggers, an’ he picked a near winner fer twenty mo’, an’ he tuck up cont’ibutions of fifty cents from sixty niggers, an’ fawty of ’em come back to git anodder tip!”
“My Lawd!” the quartet mourned in righteous indignation. “Pap hadn’t oughter did us dataway!”
“Dat’s all right,” Skeeter said consolingly. “We gits one mo’ day of racin’ to-morrer, an’ I’s doin’ some heavy thinkin’. When I gits my plan all ready, ef you niggers will he’p, we’ll git Pap Curtain an’ ’vide him up—hoofs, hide, horns, an’ taller!”
“We’s wid you, Skeeter!” they shouted. “You kin sottle you’ owe-bills wid us when we ’vides up Pap’s pickin’s.”
The men tramped out of the saloon, and ten minutes later the door swung open again, admitting Pap Curtain.